


The Seventh Son

by ClementineStarling



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke, Stardust - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stardust, pre-canon: Septimus is travelling foolishly close to the borders of the realm, where the defences of Stormhold are weak and don't offer sufficient protection against foreign magic. A pretty tavern maid is catching his eye. How could he have known she'd turn out to be some kind of honey trap of a certain <strike>wicked</strike> curious sorcerer?...</p><p>_<br/>Warnings: Dubcon, because poor enchanted girl and not so poor enchanted Septimus. Misogynic attitudes. Implications of sexual violence. Was basically only meant to be PWP, but didn't turn out very graphic. Probably passes as an M-Rating, despite sexual content. Mostly het.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seventh Son

**Author's Note:**

> I felt the rather inexplicable (haha) urge to write some porn about Prince Septimus (movie!Septimus, swoon) since till now no one seemed to have bothered. (Why?! This is so unfair!) Unfortunately it did not turn out as smutty as intended, but what can one do? I'm only the slave of my bunny-muse-playmate. :P And because I'm currently totally obsessed with Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, I tried a crossover. (No pastiche and no Wellington comes to the village of Wall-references) I'm a bit sorry for my portrayal of John Uskglass, but it appears that even in canon he's quite an arsehole, so not _that_ sorry. 
> 
> Also, as usual, beware flowery metaphors.

She was pretty, he observed, prettier than one expected of a tavern wench at the far borders of the realm. And what a welcome surprise this was. After weeks of travel he was used to being served by the ever similar kind of women wearing the hardship of their lives written all-too plainly on their faces: middle-aged inn keeper's wives and their daughters, who had been married-off too early and already borne too many a child, or simply poorly fed maids of sickly disposition. So very different from this one, who was healthy and young and pleasing to the eye, with her heart-shaped face, large eyes, and the long chestnut curls. A perfect distraction for the later evening, when the paper work was finally done. 

Absent-mindedly he let the quill drop and his correspondence be forgotten for a moment, while he watched her walk about the room, admired how she twirled and bent and swayed as if dancing, light on her feet and comfortable with her body. She moved with enough grace to be worthy of his attention, he found, and beneath the bone-deep wariness of travel something stirred inside him, something that was not at all spun from sleep and dream and cosiness. Something that stretched skin too tight and patience too thin. He was careful not to let it show in his eyes, to keep them as blank as ever. But still when she came to refill his cup her hands trembled, as if she could read his mind, and if anything, that made it worse, for if there was one thing he could not abide in a women it was timidity. It never failed to invoke an odd itch in his fingers, the urge to hit and to bruise, the wish to kindle some spirit in the poor girl and may it be simply resistance. Was not passion, after a manner, only a sister to violence?

Though how ever prone he was to cruelty and how ever hot, how ever persistent the anger was seething under his skin, Prince Septimus of Stormhold was no brute. He was well aware of a ruler's obligations, and the foolishness of giving in to one's fancies regardless of consequence, and also of the rewards to be gained by exercising restraint. From early on he had been taught that his mind was to master all sentiment, that only with self-control and calm and discipline he would achieve his goals, whereas any emotion was a weakness that could be his downfall, may it be fear or wrath or desire. He was after all the youngest son of a King who required his male children to murder each other to win the right of succession. 

So he refrained from catching her wrist, pulling her onto his lap and kissing her, willing or not, but merely smiled, all gracious politeness or perhaps a mockery thereof, and trusted in the general appeal a prince held for a maiden to make her pliant when the time came. It was a presumption, that – as of yet – had never turned out to be false, even more so if the prince was as handsome as him, with his wavy hair and proud features and elegant hands, which seemed – in the right moment – quite enough to distract from the air of danger hanging about him. And this woman appeared no exception from the rule, judging from the way she blushed and averted her gaze. Satisfaction curled the line of Septimus mouth, which he hid quickly against the rim of his cup, before he returned his attention to the letter at hand. 

“It appears the lass has taken a fancy to you...”, someone said behind him, sounding amused and a bit derisive. 

Who on earth dared address him in such unseemly a manner? Him, a royal prince of Stormhold, who was destined to be Master of the High Crags, Seneschal of the Spire-Towns, Keeper of the Citadel, Lord High Guardian of Mount Huon and all the rest of it. Septimus turned around, determined to teach the insolent fellow a lesson in respect, wipe the sneer of his face. Usually one glance was enough to make anyone hold their tongue, lest he'd rip it from their mouth. 

The culprit however was a lad of barely more than twenty years who did not seem in the slightest impressed by Septimus' dagger-stare. He must have been lurking in a dark corner of the inn, for Septimus had failed to spot him before. A slender, pale youth dressed all in black. He would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been for his sleek, long hair that shone like raven wings, and a cunning spark in his eyes. And yet there was something about him that made Septimus hair stand on end. Without thought he reached for his sword – but to his utter surprise the sheath was empty.

“Ah”, the lad smiled and looked down upon Septimus weapon in his hand, weighing it not without admiration. “A fine blade you have there, Prince of Stormhold.” He gave it an experimental flourish and the steel gleamed happily in the candlelight.

Septimus could not believe his eyes. Such impertinence towards a price of the realm was unheard of. Ridicule, well, that was foolish, but stealing a sword? The nerve of it left him nearly speechless. “How...” He began and tried to get to his feet, but the boy only raised a hand and without touching him pressed him back into his seat. The blunt force of powerful magic nearly knocked the air from Septimus' lungs. “What...” His eyes flicked towards the table where his men were sitting, cheering and drinking to this and to that, random in their choice of toasts and mainly concerned with gulping down their ale. “Guards!”, he barked but none of them took any notice.

“They cannot hear you”, the lad said with an air of exasperation, as if the prince were terribly slow on the uptake. Something in the tilt of his head made Septimus think of a large bird. 

“What is this? What do you want?”, he said, trying to sound as stern and commanding as possible. His voice was hoarse, though if anyone had asked him, he would have cited anger as the cause, not fear. Truth was that there was little Septimus was afraid of – and quite a lot he was angry about – but in this case he felt unease crawl down his spine in paralysing chills. Witchcraft applied to restrain a member of the royal family was a serious offence. One audacious enough to risk his neck for such a deed would surely not shy away from blood-shed or worse. And Septimus was not prepared to die, not here, not now, not at the hands of a total stranger. For the first time in living memory he doubted his judgement: it seemed coming here had been unwise. 

Stormhold and its dominions made for a vast realm, stretching for leagues and leagues from woodlands and plains to mountains and sea, and the lands were not only vast but equally prosperous, yet among the many kingdoms of Faerie it was certainly not the most magical. Perhaps that was the reason why the young prince had been so careless as to venture too close to its borders, just where the wild, untamed magic of the surrounding lands was creeping into the country, oblivious to the dangers that lay in wait. Perhaps he knew very well of the risks, and it had not been ignorance but recklessness that brought him here. However, now that he was confronted with such superior sorcery, magic against which none of his many charms and periapts would offer protection, he should direly regret his foolishness, in fact fear for life and limb. But whether he did, the stoniness of his features would not betray.

The lad rose to his feet in a fluid, smooth movement like a shadow detaching itself from absolute darkness, and with a bow he handed Septimus back his sword, hilt first. “I mean no harm, Prince of Stormhold”, he said. “I am merely curious to meet the next king of this realm.”

“Spare me your flattery”, Septimus hissed as along with his sword he seemed to have regained his composure. “I'd rather you explained yourself: How dare you use your magic on me, wizard!” The blade lay like lead in his hand, unwieldy and heavy, useless, as if it had a mind of its own and defied its master. Still, having it back provided him with some irrational comfort.

Again the boy watched him with these raven-clever eyes of his before he answered. “I see what you strive to become. And I see that you might succeed. I see the ambition in your blood, and the determination sharp like steel on your mind... but I also see--” and with this he touched Septimus' cheek “--the desire in your flesh, a dark hunger, an unquenchable thirst, it is eating at you like a fire, burning your insides.”

Septimus flinched at the contact. The hand was neither particularly cool nor warm, but it made his skin tingle and his limbs weak. “Oh, all those things you desire, Prince!”, the boy crooned. He was so close, his whisper like a breeze in Septimus ears, like the wind in the trees and the murmur of water over stone, ancient and wise and unsettling. 

“Who are you?” he croaked. He felt lost in the sensation, as if drowning in air, a queer sense of foreboding, and without meaning to he clutched at the youth's shoulders like holding on for dear life.

“I am the gleam of gold”, the boy said. “I am the edge of a blade and the dew of morning. I am the night between the stars and the fleeting memory of a dream.”

“What?” The impression of being smothered had disappeared, instead Septimus felt suddenly terribly tired. Sleep was reaching for him, dark oblivion, sucking, pulling. It took all of his strength to keep his eyes open. Exhaustion burnt under his skin.

“It matters not”, said the boy, “I am a friend, if you will, and may be an ally.” And he leaned forward to kiss him on the mouth, only the slightest brush of lips, like a sweep of wings.

“Are you alright, my lord?” The serving maid looked at him with large, warm eyes, an expression of confused concern on her face. 

Septimus stared blankly at her for the moment it took to come back to his senses. He must have fallen asleep and dreamt of this strange bird-boy who had been so brazen as to kiss him. Or had it been him who had wished to be kissed? The prince rubbed his temple to disperse the beginning of a headache. “I am fine”, he said with an impatient wave of his hand, “Only my day was long and the journey wearing.”

She still gazed at him with wide-eyed worry, biting her lip, waiting. But whatfore, for heaven's sake? Had she not, mere minutes ago, been to nervous to even look at him? Now she stood before him like the rabbit before the snake. She will make a perfect mother one day, Septimus thought, annoyed with her persistence, too caring and self-sacrificing beyond all reason. It seemed she could not please him, whatever she did. “I shall retire. Fetch me more wine and light the candles in my chamber”, he said, suppressing again this vile bout of passion she kindled in him. Yet he could bot help noting how at his words the spill of her pupils nearly blotted out the gold of her eyes.

And she did as she was bid while he once again watched her move, the melodic sway of her hips as she led him to his room, the graceful curve of her body as lit the candles and poured him the wine; and he tried to shrug off the strange feeling of being spied upon himself, as if there were a third person in the room.

“Anything else, my lord?”, she said when finally everything was ready, and her eyes were downcast again, her hands clasped together in a perfect picture of devotion and awe.

“Anything else you have to offer?”, Septimus asked, voice smooth as silk. He took a step forward; she did not flinch but stood her ground. His hand reached for her chin, tilting it upwards. “A kiss perhaps?” 

Her lips parted, only the slightest bit, though enough to read it as an invitation, but her eyes appeared glazed in the dim light of hearth and candles, as if her mind was veiled by an enchantment, and he hesitated. 

Septimus was no opposed to coercion or blackmail when it came to attaining an end, yet in matters of the heart he found he could always rely on his good looks and noble descent; there was no need for spells or potions or even force. And his pride forbade him to resort to such trickery, even now.

“I thought you would want her like this”, the voice whispered into his ear. “Pliant.” 

Despite the warmth of the room Septimus shivered. The presence had lost its vagueness, became defined, became corporeal. Someone walked around him, unseen like a draft, the sound of wings. Then he stood behind the girl, the boy, not at all the plain lad of earlier, but radiant, imposing. His hand came up, slender fingers pushing her hair out of the way, and then, smiling a toothy smile, he lowered his mouth to her neck without averting his gaze.

Her eyes fluttered shut and Septimus swallowed hard. “I wanted her to want me”, he said as the girl arched into the caress. The boy's hands travelled over her bodice and pressed her against himself, finger splayed possessively over her belly.

“Oh, she wants you, Septimus”, he said, “she has been wet for you since you rode up the road and into the yard. Can you not smell it? Sweet and sensuous like spring bloom...”

Septimus shook his head. He was appalled and intrigued, bewildered and aroused, all at the same time. Just when he considered reaching out to touch – the boy or the girl, he did not know which – the lad disappeared again, and the lass gave a soft whimper and opened her eyes. A gleam of gold shone in them, lust like morning dew in her gaze.

Without thinking he dipped his head and caught her lips in a kiss. Her taste was every bit as delicious as he imagined it to be, and she melted against him with another sigh that made all qualms, all pride forgotten. His right hand cupped her nape as he pulled her closer, while his tongue slipped past her lips, past her teeth into the sweetness of her mouth, and he drank the first moans from her throat like the finest of wines.

Yes, yes, yes, thrummed the approval through his veins, the arousal surging hot in its wake. Scorching, seething waves of desire. His fingers had begun to tug at her gown of their own accord, and he found he growled against her lips like a hungry animal.

Someone laughed behind a curtain of dreams, the sound chiming like raindrops in the room, but Septimus chose not to hear it.

She was beautiful as he laid her onto his bed, bare-skinned and flushed, eyes aglow with longing, eager for every bit of his body that he uncovered, wide shoulders, narrow hips, flat belly. She bit her lip again at the sight of the dark trail of hair leading downwards, disappearing in the low waistband of his riding breeches, that he'd still kept on when he crawled over her. Her hands flew immediately to the small of his back, trying to push the leather further down. He caught her wrists to stop her.

“Such impatience”, Septimus breathed against the side of her neck, causing goose bumps to erupt on the skin, and he dragged his still clothed groin over the tenderness of her exposed sex. She gasped at the feel of cool leather and hard cock. “Please”, she whispered, writhing against him, her breathing shallow already. The heave of her breast was quite lovely, it made him want to suckle at the buds and sprawl his fingers over her ribcage as if he owned her, heart and soul. But instead he just looked at her. She was a gift, he realised, perhaps not even real. Just when the thought had struck, did he notice the shape in the corner of his eye, like a raven unfolding its wings. The lad leaned casually against the headboard of the bed, watching them with an expression of glee.

Septimus' heart missed a beat. The boy seemed to slip from his consciousness, as soon as he was out of sight, and this reappearance reminded him, that he was most probably under a spell himself. Beneath him the tavern maid wriggled impatiently, wrapping her thighs around him, a movement that emphasised the nature of the enchantment.

So that's what was it then? The whole point of this jest... Providing amusement for some nameless magician? 

Prince Septimus was no stranger to games. He knew everything about political ploys and courtly intrigues, amorous affairs, plots and schemes. But not everything in the life of a Stormhold prince was about conspiracy and state business. There was always a time for pleasure, too, a time for erotic playfulness and the art of seduction. He could do this... deliver on the thrill of submission. There was scarcely anything more arousing than having someone at your beck and call who was ruthless, dangerous, violent even. And what else was there to do, really?

He lowered his mouth onto the girl's feverish skin, but his gaze never left the boy's face as he brushed his lips over her skin, through the valley of her breasts, over the hollow of her stomach. He spread her legs with his gentle hands and she opened up like the petals of a flower. She smelled indeed sweet, a bit cloying even, like overripe fruit or bloom on the verge of decay. Intoxicating.

The boy watched, starlight in his eyes, and Septimus smiled – a smile that was all teeth and triumph – before he buried his face in her lap.

He allowed her fingers to tangle themselves in his hair, urge him on, urge him closer. He rubbed the stubble of his chin against her sensitive flesh, she was already damp, wet even, when he trailed his lips over her folds, dipped his tongue between them. Slow, determined strokes, that made her squirm and moan and jerk, and he held her, as relentless in this as in everything else he did, until he was soaked in her pleasure and she could no longer bear his caress.

“May I kiss you?”, the boy asked when Septimus had let go of her. Suddenly he was so close, and the question did not even seem strange any more. Septimus only nodded, drunk on sex, arousal coiled tight in his belly, and so they kissed. When he buried his hand in the raven-feather hair, he realised that this was exactly what he had wanted, and he yanked hard and the boy laughed as their mouths crashed together. He tasted like madness, like bird-flight and midnight-rain.

It was not gentle at all, too hard lips, too much teeth, but so very intense; a thunderstorm, sparks and crackles and flashes of tension, and when they broke apart they were both gasping for breath. Septimus grasp in the boy's hair was almost cruel, but the lad only grinned, bright-eyed and full of mischief. “Now what?” the prince asked when he found his voice again. “Now you fuck her”, the boy said as if this was the obvious answer. He touched Septimus cheek again dreamily, such stark a contrast to Septimus' own hold upon him, and then he slipped from his grasp and back into his observer's position, propped against the head of the bed.

Septimus felt the night wrapped around them, enclosing the house, the realm, the world, a veil of black fog, scarcely breached by flames. The dark was infinite, reaching further than time and sleep, and yet at the same time there was nothing but this room, the moment drawn to a pin point, and her glowing beneath him in the candle-light, golden promise of pleasure and bliss. He understood how shape was only what the mind fashioned from chaos, how nothing and everything were the same, unless you cut them apart. 

He kissed her again, a hunger mirrored between them, and this time he allowed her to strip away his last garment, to be naked and hard between her thighs, be pulled close and into her, into that animal state of being, that was all growls and grunts and mindless thrusts, pursuit of ever-fleeting relief.

He pinned her wrists to the mattress as he ground himself against her, and she met his movements with equal fervour, rocking back into him, like water against stone, in that age-old rhythm of nature, until the pleasure was almost painful, the stabs of ecstasy like knives in the belly, sharp, mind-numbing, wonderful, completion.

They just lay there, breathing, breaking apart rapidly as the tension faded and the trembles subsided, becoming nothing, becoming everything. A serving wench and a prince. 

There had been something else, Septimus remembered dimly, someone else. Sleep was claiming him fast now, befuddling his thoughts, dragging him down into its wordless dominion. He was almost asleep when the fingertips touched his temple. A feathery brush. Gently they stroked a sweat-damp strand of hair out of his face. The last thing he heard was a whisper – nonsensical like the murmur of wind and water – sweeping through his mind. 

On the verge of this realm to another, the boy unfolded his limbs languidly, stretching his long legs, before swinging them off the bed. Neither the man nor the girl stirred, when his heavy boots hit the ground, too entrapped were they in the spell he had wrought. He could not decide whether to be proud or disappointed. Somehow he had expected more resistance from the seventh son of the King of Stormhold, more power. There appeared not to be a shred of magic in him. Still it was obvious that he surpassed all of his six brothers in ruthlessness and resolve. It had not been flattery to call him the next king, just a reference to likelihood. Unless he was defeated by means of sorcery, there was naught that could possibly stop him from ascending the throne. Unless... 

A frown lay upon John Uskglass' pale features as he wandered off into the gloomy half-world between now and never to trail a curious suspicion.


End file.
